


We Were Written in the Stars

by IanRightsOnly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Season/Series 10, Summer Romance, The sappiest of sappy husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanRightsOnly/pseuds/IanRightsOnly
Summary: Mickey reflects on falling in love, while he and Ian return to the dugouts on a starry, summer night.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 73
Kudos: 365





	We Were Written in the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to Michelle [(statichearts)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts/works) and Danique for essentially prompting me to write this. We were discussing it on Twitter, and in a battle of virtual rock/paper/scissors, the task was bestowed upon me.
> 
> I've honestly been wanting to write a fic like this for a long time, but the idea was sort of put on the backburner while I worked on other things. I wrote [In a Haze of Smoke & Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022395) over the summer, touching on Mickey's mindset and feelings throughout season 2, and I definitely referenced some of those same elements in this story. The two fics aren't necessarily "connected" otherwise, but I think I have them tied together in my brain for obvious reasons.

**We Were Written in the Stars**

Mickey was seventeen when he fell in love.

The concept was foreign; unfamiliar and abstract, like an idea that Mickey always _heard_ about but never knew could exist in his own reality.

For most of his adolescence, it seemed to Mickey that love was fictitious, at best.

It didn’t exist—not in his home, not in his life.

He thought he felt pieces of it, once. From his mother, he thought he had felt it.

Until it grew colder, until it was gone.

So, what the fuck did Mickey know about love?

That it was fleeting? That it was _f_ _ake?_

While he was growing up, he watched his mother suffer through a loveless marriage.

A marriage of convenience and, _“‘Cause you couldn’t take care of a fuckin’ kid alone at thirteen. That’s what you get for getting knocked up in the first place, bitch.”_

Because, fuck no. Marriage wasn’t about love.

And family wasn’t about love, either.

While he was growing up, he watched his dad inflict pain on everyone in his life.

This man—his father—the man he was told to honor and obey. The man he was supposed to respect and follow; to turn a blind fucking eye to the horrors unraveling behind closed doors.

Family wasn’t about love, because Terry was incapable of love.

And, once his mother was gone, those bits and pieces of love that Mickey thought _might_ exist—those went with her, too.

When he was left with Terry, he spent many wasted years trying to find the good in him.

Trying to be like him.

And, ultimately, realizing that he would _never_ be like him. Because Terry was incapable of love.

But Mickey? Mickey was _meant_ to love.

Mickey was meant to love and be loved; until it became every fucking part of him. Until it filled his chest with warmth, until it left a blush on his cheeks and a smile on his lips.

Until he learned that soft touches felt like home, and first kisses felt like new beginnings. Until it made him want to be a better man.

Mickey was seventeen when he fell in love with a boy; a boy with freckles and red hair, and green eyes that looked at Mickey like he was everything good about the world.

The weight of the world would tear them apart, pushing and pulling and bending and breaking.

But Mickey had other plans, and maybe— _maybe_ the universe did, too. Maybe that was clear, as the years rolled on.

Maybe it was clear, every time Mickey found himself at a crossroads, trying to choose the right path. And there was always one, lit up by love and hope and starlight, that Mickey would follow.

Mickey felt it in the way their love never felt cold, and in the way they looked into each other’s eyes. In the way they _saw one another,_ like nobody else ever could.

In the way they would come back together infinitely, inevitably, _always._

And, eight years later, Mickey was twenty-five when he married that boy.

The boy that Mickey was meant to love forever.

The boy, now man— _Ian—_ that was meant to love Mickey forever, too.

* * *

There were nights that felt like magic, beneath the moonlit sky. Nights spent talking about everything, arguing about nothing. Nights spent getting high until their bodies felt like fire pressing together, or drinking until the stars looked like they were spinning circles around them.

Mickey thinks back now, and wonders if maybe they were. Like maybe things were always meant to end up this way.

Because, _he’s married now,_ and he’s allowed to think about cheesy, romantic shit like that.

I mean, what the fuck, right?

It sure seems like he’s fucking _right._

That first summer; the one that hit Mickey like an arrow in the chest, weaving love and lust into Mickey’s chest and blurring his senses with feelings that he didn’t understand.

Until he did.

And it scared the fucking hell out of him.

Until it didn't.

He remembers seeing Ian for the first time that summer, on a warm, sunny afternoon.

Fresh out of juvie—greeted by his bitch sister and fucking Ian Gallagher, catching him off guard, quickening his pulse and putting knots in his stomach.

Fuck, _he had missed him_.

It was a lot to admit to himself, let alone to Ian; disguising his falling heart with teenage hormones and an appetite for sex that _meant nothing._ When it really meant everything, when every time they were together, Mickey thought about kissing his lips and wishing for more.

God, he was so afraid. He was so afraid, but he couldn’t resist. What was making him feel this way? _What was he feeling?_

What would happen if he stopped it?

What would happen if he didn’t?

He was fucking _curious._

And, that wasn’t a bad thing.

After all, his curiosity ultimately landed him a husband. _Eventually._

That first night out of juvie was one of _those_ nights; magic beneath the stars, hiding in the darkness of the night, within the dimly lit dugout where they played Little League together as kids.

Of course, they were _still_ kids. But when you’re seventeen, you feel so _grown up._ So mature, like you know everything about fucking everything, even when you know nothing.

When you’re too naïve to realize you’re falling in love, even when it's staring you in the face.

Staring you in the face and smiling softly, looking at you with bright eyes; with sparks flying and love brewing and stars burning between you until it becomes the only feeling you know.

Until you see nothing but him, until you feel nothing but him. Until you tease and taunt him until he makes a move, with his body molded against your body, sometimes with fingers laced together; other times holding you by your hips to keep you steady.

Of course, Mickey still thinks about those nights, sometimes.

Those nights spent falling in love under the stars, when Ian was patient and Mickey was eager and everything made sense ( _while nothing made sense)_ because Ian gave Mickey a taste of freedom that he never, ever knew he could have.

And that night in particular, spent shotgunning beer and smoking and challenging each other to mediocre pull-ups, meant more to _impress_ than to actually compete.

That night in particular, with Mickey pressed into the fence and bent over the benches, with Ian’s mouth on the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine and _feelings_ into his heart.

He remembers looking at Ian one point that summer, thinking about how he had been so fucking convinced that love _didn’t exist—_ and being _scared to death_ when he realized that he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Mickey wouldn’t kiss Ian that summer—not yet—but he’d think about it every fucking day, through another stint in juvie and beyond.

And when he finally saw Ian again, when he came back to Ian again—the second time of many more times to come—he thinks that he already knew. He definitely knew.

He had fallen in love long before he was willing to admit it; long before he was willing to say it out loud.

But he knew, and Ian knew.

It felt like something was written in the stars, to know that Ian had fallen in love with him, too.

* * *

Mickey was twenty-five when he married Ian.

After eight years of falling, loving, hurting, falling apart, and falling back together—they’re fucking _married_ now.

Mickey is a fucking husband.

He’s a husband with a family that loves him, and he _has a husband_ that loves him more than anything. And fuck—Mickey is just as in love as he was eight years ago.

Maybe even more, now, than he was back then.

They argue and fight and bicker nearly every day, but they still manage to fucking look at each other like they're falling in love for the first time.

It throws Mickey off balance, sometimes.

Sometimes, Mickey _forgets_ why the fuck they’re arguing, because Ian’s face will soften unexpectedly, instantly replacing Mickey’s frustration with _fondness_ until they’re kissing and smiling against each other’s lips.

Ian will mutter, _“I can’t fucking stand you,”_ through a smiling kiss, and Mickey will kiss him back harder, to shut him the fuck up.

When Mickey wakes up, now, it’s with strong arms wrapped around him and a warm body snuggled up behind him. It’s with Ian’s face nestled into the back of his neck, safe and comfortable and happy. With wedding bands on the ring fingers of their left hands, reminding Mickey that this is real life, and not just a dream.

They still act like kids, sometimes—making out on the couch when they think they’re alone, and teasing each other when they know they’re not.

They fight over the remote, and argue about who can shotgun a beer faster. They have burping contests at the dinner table, until they’re getting yelled at to _shut the fuck up_ because apparently it’s disgusting, even though Mickey thinks everyone needs to lighten up and quit being so fucking dramatic. They keep doing it, anyway.

They wrestle each other to the ground, squabbling over who the fuck is stronger, fighting to pin each other down until they’re either laughing or kissing or both, or until someone accidentally gets kneed in the ribs.

It’s fun to be childish together, for a lot of reasons, Mickey thinks.

Neither of them ever got to be kids—not _really._

While their hearts were tangled and tied together with love and stars, their lives were twisted and caught in barbed wire. They were dealt the ugliest cards; the kind that didn’t allow for a carefree childhood or teenage years.

And so, they make the most of it, now.

It makes Mickey happy, to think about the fact that Ian isn’t just his husband. He’s his best fucking friend, and he loves him in _every way._

A husband, a lover, a partner, a best friend.

A marriage filled with love, safety, and happiness.

Mickey is part of something bigger than just himself, now, with he and Ian at the center.

And because they love each other, someday they’ll start a family of their own, too.

Whatever that means, Mickey doesn’t care.

He’ll give Ian the fucking world. He’ll raise kids with Ian, or get a fucking cat or a dog or a bird or whatever the fuck Ian wants. He just knows that any living creature that comes into their lives will know what the fuck love is.

And it’s pretty fucking incredible, to know that they built their love from scratch.

* * *

It’s a hot summer night, the kind that reminds Mickey of falling in love, when he and Ian find themselves together at the dugouts.

Mickey feels nostalgic.

He feels nostalgic, in love, and maybe a little bit playful, all at the same time.

It’s been a long time since they’ve been here, since they were in their late teens, during a period of their history that neither of them like to think about. But the memories are mostly good ones, nonetheless.

They’re certainly due to make some new ones.

Mickey digs through his bag to pull out two beers, and tosses one to Ian.

Ian catches it without missing a beat.

He’s smiling like he’s thinking about something, and Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“The fuck are you smilin’ at?” Mickey asks.

Ian pulls out a switchblade, shrugs, and says, “You know. Just thinking about this guy I used to come here with.”

Mickey grins.

“Bet you’d be jealous of him,” Ian continues. “Bet he could beat your ass to the ground, too.”

“Fuckin’ doubt that,” Mickey argues.

A vague image pops into his head, where he and a younger version of himself are beating the shit out of each other.

Mickey is stronger now, probably. Although he might be a little bit softer around the edges.

And yeah, he fucking blames Ian for that.

“Y’know, I used to come here with some guy, too. Fuckin’ doe-eyed kid that was hopelessly in love with me,” Mickey says. “Thought I was goddamn irresistible.”

He watches for Ian’s reaction, pleased to see him rolling his eyes with an amused grin on his face.

“Can’t imagine why,” Ian quips. “If he was _that_ crazy about you, maybe he should have fucking married you.”

Ian steps closer and stabs the side of Mickey’s beer can without warning. It sprays at Mickey’s neck before he can react, until he quickly raises it to his lips to swallow down as much as he can.

He shoots Ian the finger, while Ian moves onto his own can.

Mickey chucks it to the ground once it’s empty, coughing around a burp as he shoves at Ian’s chest and knocks Ian’s can out of his hand onto the ground.

Serves him fucking right.

Ian swallows his final mouthful before shoving Mickey back, laughing as Mickey trips forward when one of the cans rolls beneath his foot.

“You’re not _nearly_ as graceful as you were when you were younger,” Ian points out. “Not as good at shotgunning anymore, either, old man.”

_Old man._

For fuck’s sake, he only _just_ turned twenty-six.

“Damn, what’s got you talkin’ so much shit tonight, Gallagher? I can still kick your fuckin’ ass, y’know.”

Ian smiles, sweet and charming, and Mickey wants _so badly_ to be annoyed with him—but his brain gets stuck on how fucking badly he wants to kiss him, instead.

No wonder Mickey fucking married him.

He clearly uses some kind of husband mind control bullshit to distract Mickey at any given moment, to get whatever he wants from him.

It all makes sense now.

“I don’t think you will, actually,” Ian says, calmly.

Mickey raises his eyebrows and steps closer to Ian, wetting his lips as he looks up at him. He adds, “You _sure_ about that?”

Ian smirks as he glances at Mickey’s mouth. He mirrors him, licking his own lips as he sets his hands on each side of Mickey’s hips.

And then, Ian catches Mickey off guard when he changes the subject, and says, “The first time I came here with you, I knew you were everything I wanted.”

Mickey’s stomach flutters as if he’s seventeen again—seventeen and listening to Ian admit that he fucking wants everything about him, for the very first time.

Of course, Ian wouldn’t say those words until years later, when Mickey was ready to hear them spoken aloud. When he _needed_ to hear them.

But he knew. They both knew.

Ian leans in, and pecks gently at Mickey’s lips. He nuzzles their foreheads together, noses bumping each other as Mickey closes his eyes.

“I wanted to kiss you so bad, that night,” Ian whispers. “I spent all fucking day hoping you’d let me.”

Mickey tilts his head upwards and kisses Ian again, more directly; makes it last a few seconds longer.

“I wanted to,” Mickey says, quietly. “Was scared, but I wanted to.”

Ian nods, and closes their lips together in another kiss. Mickey leans into it, until Ian’s hands slide to the small of his back to pull him closer. Ian says, _“I know,”_ around an exhale, kissing Mickey harder, walking with him awkwardly until the back of Mickey’s legs hit the bench behind them.

“C’mere,” Ian says, switching their positions until he’s sitting down on the bench, pulling Mickey down into his lap.

And then, they’re kissing—making out just like Mickey wanted to, so fucking badly, back when he was seventeen. When Ian would kiss Mickey’s neck and Mickey would think about what it’d feel like to kiss his lips.

Ian has always kissed with an undertone of eagerness, while Mickey has always _really_ been partial to kissing with tongue. Maybe not the first time, but once he realized how _good_ it felt.

He worried about being sloppy, at first. He wondered if he was bad at it, or if Ian ever wanted it differently. But if Ian ever had any qualms, he certainly never made them known, responding only with enthusiasm and passion that filled Mickey’s stomach with butterflies.

The kind of butterflies that remain, no matter how many years pass by. The kind of butterflies that feel permanent, as Ian gently guides Mickey to lie on his back, while he climbs on top of his body.

“Want you,” Ian whispers, teeth grazing Mickey’s bottom lip. “Hm. Bangin’ you here again feels like a right of passage, or—something.”

Mickey chuckles, shifting until he’s wrapping his legs up around Ian’s hips. The weight of Ian’s body feels heavy on top of him, and it’s building heat fast within his groin.

“Gotta consummate our marriage at this shithole, right?” Mickey says. “Sounds like a right of fuckin’ passage.”

Ian snorts.

 _“Sure,”_ he says, kissing down Mickey’s neck. “Good thing we’ve been saving ourselves for this moment, huh, Mick?”

“Mm, good thing,” Mickey says.

Sometimes it’s in these moments that Mickey’s mind shuts down and his body starts to take over; like he knows what to do without knowing.

He anticipates Ian’s next move, works with him in tandem, until Ian pulls them back up into a sitting position. Until sweatpants and boxers are pushed down around their thighs. Until Ian is sitting up with his feet flat on the ground, and Mickey is back in his lap—because that’s where Ian fucking wants him, right now.

Mickey can take a hint.

“You want me to ride you, Gallagher?” he asks, antsy with anticipation and arousal.

God, _please say yes_.

It’s _fucking hot_ and Mickey wants it; wants to do all the shit here that he was too afraid to do, back then. When fucking face to face was scary and the idea of kissing felt like taboo.

 _“Yeah,”_ Ian says, and he sounds shaky like he’s excited. “Always wanted you like this, when we were younger. Could never get you to sit in my fucking lap, though.”

Ian is half-teasing, although he’s _right,_ and Mickey rocks down against him to get him a little more focused.

“Think you solved that problem,” Mickey says against Ian’s ear, before dragging his tongue down the side of his neck.

“Yeah—that’s why I married you,” Ian stutters around the words as he noses at the side of Mickey’s face, until he’s able to catch his lips again. He licks into Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey feels his body going _weak._

“So you could fuck me in semi-public places?” Mickey asks, gasping as Ian grabs onto his ass.

He pushes back into Ian’s touch; loves the roughness of his hands, and the way he kneads his fingers around his ass, pressing indentations into his skin.

Ian slides his hands around to lift Mickey up by his hips, guiding him up and down, back and forth, until he feels Ian’s cock sliding along the crease of his ass.

“Didn’t have to marry you for that,” Ian teases. “Been fucking you in semi-public places for _years.”_

“Guess so,” Mickey says, pushing his ass down against Ian’s cock. He drags his tongue over Ian’s bottom lip, and whispers, “You gonna fuck me in a semi-public place right now? Or just fuckin’ _talk_ to me about it?”

It’s a valid question, because Mickey came fucking _prepared_ for this, and fucking sue him—he wants Ian’s dick in his ass. Now _._

And, thankfully, Ian isn’t one to deny Mickey of his demands.

Maybe _that’s_ why they’re married.

Because when Mickey jokes about Ian finding him irresistible, it’s really not a joke, at all.

Which is how they end up in predicaments like this; with Ian hard and handsy, ready to fuck Mickey on a goddamn bench in the year 2020, because they _want each other_ just as much as they did eight years ago. And maybe it makes Mickey a little bit hot, when he thinks about the fact that they finally _have each other._

They finally have each other, but they still want each other just as much as they did back then, back when things felt new and forbidden.

It felt like they were star-crossed lovers, back then, trying desperately to outrun a time-bomb with a fuse that was already on fire.

Star-crossed lovers. Doomed to fail, destined to be ripped apart by the world around them. That’s what they were, _so it seemed,_ all those years ago.

But look at them, now.

Two stars together, burning white-hot and forming something new. Something beautiful. No longer crossed by a grim fate, but rather brought together instead by love.

Two stars meant to burn together, forever.

And sometimes it feels like Mickey just can’t get enough—when he wants to get closer, when he wants Ian’s hands on every inch of him, when he wants Ian inside of him until he can’t breathe without feeling Ian breathe, too.

It makes things exciting, in a feverish fog of touching, teasing, tasting; until Mickey feels Ian slide into him and bite down on his neck to stifle the sound that threatens to rip from his throat.

It’s in these moments that Mickey lets himself be loved; let’s it burn through him like the sun.

It feels like a million different versions of himself, from a million different lifetimes. Loving Ian through good and bad, happy and sad, _sickness and health,_ everything.

It’s in a moment like this, reminding Mickey of everything that he’s overcome—being here with Ian, at a place that feels familiar, at a place that he associates with falling in love, where his world feels like it’s come full circle.

And Mickey kisses him through it, leans against his chest with Ian’s arms wrapped around him, holding him like he’s never going to let go.

It feels so much more like making love than it used it, which Mickey realizes with a fleeting bit of chagrin—because it probably _shouldn’t_ feel like making love when he’s riding Ian into a dirty fucking dugout bench.

But, Jesus Christ, it fucking does.

It makes the touch hotter, makes his heart beat faster. It makes him think about love, makes him think about being Ian’s man—about being his _husband_. It makes him think about falling in love and being in love.

It makes him think about forever.

It makes him see stars behind his eyes, so much fucking brighter than the ones in the sky.

* * *

The moon seems to rise higher, as the night goes on. They’re both a few beers deep, enjoying the night and enjoying each other.

Ian has busied himself with a round of pull-ups, swinging from the bar overhanging the dugout, because he’s a fucking show off and he’s trying to get under Mickey’s skin.

As if he isn’t already. As if he hasn’t been, from the fucking start.

Mickey likes to watch him, though.

And, for the most part, he has no reason to hide it. Not the way he used to.

Or, the way he used to _try._

It’s not like he was ever good at actually keeping it a goddamn secret.

It’s not like he didn’t know that Ian wanted him to fucking watch.

So, Mickey watched. And—Mickey still watches.

Ian isn’t a kid anymore, and Mickey can’t fucking believe it sometimes; the way he watched him grow up before his eyes, into stronger arms and broader shoulders. Watched him fill out across his chest and through his abdomen. Watched him _get fucking taller,_ as if Mickey needed a reason to feel even shorter.

Sometimes Ian catches him watching, like right now, when Mickey is being particularly obvious about it.

And it sort of makes Ian cocky, poking Mickey in the side and asking him shit like, “Do you think I’m hot, Mickey?”—because he’s fucking _annoying,_ and Mickey is pretty fucking certain that humoring Ian’s arrogant bullshit is just part of what he signed up for, when he decided that marrying him was a good idea.

Usually, Mickey tells Ian to _fuck off._ Flips him the fuck off until Ian is tackling him onto the couch, until they’re laughing. Or kissing. Until Mickey tries to disarm Ian by fucking tickling him, because he hates it but it’s one way Mickey can always gain the upper hand, without fail.

Stuck within his musings, Mickey is obviously staring right now, too. He’s sitting on the bench with his legs up, puffing away on a cigarette. As Ian’s muscles tense and flex, Mickey sits back and watches.

And then, Ian jumps down. He kicks a beer can across the length of the dugout, steps closer to Mickey, and swiftly proceeds to snatch the cigarette from his hand.

“Aye—you forget how the fuck to light your own?” Mickey grumbles, swinging his feet to the ground.

Ian shrugs, sitting on the bench beside him.

Their shoulders brush together, and Ian yanks his hand away when Mickey tries to grab the cigarette back. He nods towards the bar, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Gonna show me whatcha got, or you too afraid to embarrass yourself in your old age?”

Again with the old age bullshit.

As if Mickey isn’t working out regularly. As if he’s not helping train rich, weak bastards at Kev’s Keg Zone four or five fucking days per week.

Mickey is extremely fucking far from being even remotely out of shape, in his so-called _“old age.”_

“I’ll take your ass to fuckin’ school, Gallagher,” Mickey says as he stands up from the bench.

“Mmhmm,” Ian hums, dragging it out in a monotonous sort of tone.

Mickey always feels irritably competitive, whenever Ian acts like this.

He grabs onto the bar and pulls himself up easily, and he’s about to rub it in Ian’s face—until he’s getting grabbed around the waist and pulled back down to the ground.

“Are you _fuckin’ serious—_ ” Mickey groans, kicking his legs out as Ian wraps his arms tightly around Mickey’s belly.

He drags Mickey out of the dugouts and onto the field, laughing as Mickey grumbles and tries to wriggle out of his grip.

They fall to the ground with a painful _thud_.

Ian lands on his back with Mickey on top of him, groaning dramatically despite his eruption of laughter.

Mickey really wants to kick him.

Or punch him in the stomach. Or _something._

But for fuck’s sake—Ian is lying in the grass, laughing and smiling like an absolute idiot, and Mickey loves him.

God, Mickey fucking loves him.

He’s all stupid and happy and maybe a little bit drunk, and Mickey fucking loves him.

And so, Mickey does the only thing he can think to do, and kisses him.

* * *

They end up sprawled out on the ball field, lying on a raggedy blanket that Mickey stuffed into his bag earlier in the night.

The moon’s glow looks especially bright from here, surrounded by dozens and dozens of stars, spanning out in every direction.

They’re sharing another cigarette, passing it back and forth between them.

Mickey feels Ian's eyes on him after a while, before he turns his head to look at him.

Ian smiles.

“You know, when we were young, I used to shotgun joints just for an excuse to get my lips on yours,” he says, wistfully. “Did that shit on purpose.”

“I know,” Mickey says, chuckling. “I mean, I ain’t that fuckin’ clueless.”

It always got Mickey’s heart racing, when Ian would ask him to shotgun a joint. They didn’t do it too often—just a handful of times—but fuck, it made Mickey feel higher than weed ever did.

Ian hums, and says, “But then you _married_ me, and gave me legal rights to make out with you whenever I feel like it.”

Mickey snorts, and shoves at Ian’s shoulder.

“Does it say that in our marriage contract?”

“It does,” Ian says, adamantly. “It states clearly in the fine print— _‘Mickey agrees to kiss Ian whenever Ian wants kisses’—_ and I don’t make the rules, Mick.”

“What about when I don’t wanna fuckin’ kiss you?” Mickey argues. “Like when you get on my fuckin’ nerves.”

Ian's grin widens.

He reaches for Mickey's wrists suddenly, struggling to pull himself on top of Mickey’s body. He says, “You _always_ wanna fucking kiss me,” as Mickey uses his weight to knock Ian onto his side.

 _“Bitch,”_ Mickey grumbles, grabbing for Ian’s shoulder. “You fuckin’ wish.”

Ian knocks him onto his back again, and pins his wrists down to the ground above their heads.

“I know you do,” Ian leans down and closes his mouth over Mickey’s, whispering against his lips, _“Especially_ when I get on your nerves.”

Yeah, whatever. Maybe he has a fucking point.

But that’s not Mickey’s fault.

It’s not Mickey’s fault that Ian turns him the fuck on, even when he’s being an insufferable shithead. They’ve known each other for a long time—Ian knows exactly what to do to knock the ground out from under Mickey’s feet.

And, he does. Every single time.

“Admit it,” Ian says. “You fucking love me.”

Mickey kisses him again, and Ian smiles into it.

“Maybe,” Mickey says.

“No— _admit it._ Say you love me.”

“Fuck off.”

“Say it.”

“Bite me.”

Ian makes a _tsk_ sound and nips at Mickey’s jaw, before starting a descent of biting kisses down his neck.

Okay, fine. He walked directly into that one.

“I love you,” Ian says, breathing the words into Mickey’s skin. “ _I love you.”_

“Fine,” Mickey grumbles, although he can’t help but turn fucking _soft_ whenever Ian dotes on him. “Love you more.”

“Mm—“ Ian kisses him. “Don’t think so—“ Kiss. “Think I love you the most.” Kiss. “The fucking most, Mick.” Kiss.

Fuck, Mickey fucking loves him.

They’re lying on a fucking blanket in the middle of the ball field, kisses turning heavy the second Mickey starts to become more responsive, when he realizes that maybe this is going somewhere.

Because he feels kind of romantic, right now—alone with Ian, beneath the stars.

“So fuckin’ prove it, then,” Mickey teases, pressing his knees into both sides of Ian’s waist.

Because, if Mickey can get fucked again before they go home, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. They used to go again and again, when they were just two fucking teenagers with overactive hormones, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.

Ian licks his lips and hums as his eyes trace the length of Mickey’s body. He asks, “Prove it—like, _prove it?”_ as he searches Mickey’s face for some guidance.

It’s fucking cute. They’re arguing about who the fuck loves who _more,_ while Ian is stopping to figure out— _hold on, does Mickey want to fuck again?_

Mickey leans back and smiles. He bites down on his bottom lip and looks up at Ian with _those eyes_ ; the kind that always get him whatever the fuck he wants.

Ian’s gaze turns heated, as he stares down at Mickey with his lips slightly parted.

“Prove it, like—” Mickey whispers. “How hard you can fuckin’ love me, y’know?”

Ian swallows. He’s so fucking easy to rile up.

His mouth is on Mickey’s neck instantly, licking at the sticky, stale beer that dried on his skin earlier in the night. They’re hurrying, sort of—maybe because it feels like they’re more exposed, right here in the middle of the field.

But it must be nearly 2 a.m. by now, Mickey is pretty damn sure.

If anyone catches them like this, that _really_ isn’t Mickey’s fucking problem. If you’re out and roaming the South Side streets at this hour, you’re bound to see some shit that you don’t want to see.

They keep their clothes on, mostly; sweats pushed down with shirts raised up to feel that skin to skin contact that they both crave. At least, until Ian takes his off, completely—because that’s just what he fucking does, when he gets fucking into it.

Not that Mickey is complaining.

 _God,_ no, he’s not complaining.

Everything feels kind of fucking dreamy, as Mickey stares up at the sky; at the stars shining brightly above them. His eyes slip closed once he feels Ian inside of him, as Ian’s hands grip onto Mickey’s thighs to give himself some leverage.

Mickey swears he almost fucking _laughs,_ thinking about how obscene this is. Thinking about how he’s getting fucked in an open field by _his husband_ at age twenty-six.

Because he can.

Because he’s in love.

Because he’s married.

Because lying on a blanket in the middle of a ball field feels fucking romantic, with his thighs up around Ian’s waist and the breath getting punched out of his lungs.

And with Ian holding onto him, fucking into him, controlling the way Mickey hits back against him— _fuck,_ it feels good.

It’s good, good, _so_ _fucking good._

It’s so fucking good that Ian knows exactly what Mickey wants; knows exactly what he fucking means when he tells Ian to _love him hard._

Mickey keeps his arms locked around Ian’s back, fingers digging into his shoulder blades as he speeds up. And when he speeds up, he goes a little harder—and, holy fuck, when Mickey thinks about being loved hard, he thinks about this. He thinks about everything he has with Ian, and everything they are together.

And then Mickey is moaning— _really fucking moaning—_ letting a fast-building orgasm build as quickly as if can, because they’re basically in fucking public and this isn’t the time or place to drag things out or challenge their stamina.

Ian has the same idea, clearly, as he shifts his hips to hit Mickey where he needs it most, aiming _perfectly_ like he’s going for the motherfucking gold, like fucking is a goddamn Olympic Sport and finishing Mickey off without getting caught is the ultimate prize. His hips begin to stutter, then, as Mickey arches up against him, head falling back and hitting the ground a little too hard.

There’s grass brushing against Mickey’s skin, as he vaguely realizes that they’re no longer on the blanket, but his train of thought breaks when Ian cranes his neck to kiss him, gasping into his mouth with nails digging sharply into his thighs.

Ian slows his pace; fucks into him deep, pulls out slow, and does it _again._

One more time, and Mickey feels his entire body tense up. He keeps one arm around Ian’s back, reaching out to grab at the ground with the other.

He ends up with a fistful of grass, uselessly, as the torn up blades fall through his fingertips and dirt gets stuck beneath his nails.

 _“Fuck,”_ Ian says, cutting off into a gasp as his hips go still and his body begins to shake.

With Ian’s face buried in Mickey’s neck, moaning soft, hot sounds into his ears, he feels it when Ian starts to come.

It always boosts Mickey’s ego a little bit, when he manages to make Ian come first. Because Mickey made that happen—because Mickey knows damn well that he makes Ian _feel good_ , and that’s so fucking hot.

Of course, it’s not like Mickey doesn’t _immediately_ follow suit, trembling as he comes hard between their bodies, rolling through wave after wave of good fucking feeling.

And maybe it’s a little bit intensified, in a public place. Maybe it’s a little bit fucking explosive, to get away with this, now, as goddamn married men that shouldn’t be fucking in an open field.

But—getting away with things is _fun._

Especially things like this. Especially with Ian.

Silence surrounds them, mostly. Just the two of them, with shaky breaths slowly steadying. With a chorus of chirping crickets, and the occasional siren or screech of a car tire.

Mickey settles against Ian’s side after a while, head resting in the space between his neck and shoulder. Ian tilts his head down just enough to kiss Mickey’s forehead.

“We should do this more often,” Ian says, and he sounds serious enough that Mickey _really_ can’t tell whether or not he’s joking.

He runs his fingers along Ian’s chest, tracing gentle shapes across his skin, and says, “Don’t know, man. I can only deal with so many grass stains.”

“It’s _fun_ , though,” Ian argues. “Changes things up.”

“I got like a million things off the top of my head that we could fuckin’ do to change things up—and it’s all shit we can do _inside_ the fuckin’ house.”

“That sounds like a _you_ problem,” Ian says. “Not my fault you can’t think outside the box. What if we move to like—a rainforest, someday? And live in one of those treehouse things. Those are like, mostly outside.”

 _“Yeah,_ okay, George of the fuckin’ Jungle,” Mickey quips. “Grass don’t exactly give me much to hold onto. Prefer grabbing onto a headboard. Or a blanket, y’know—something sturdy, that isn’t gonna leave goddamn dirt on my hands.”

“Jesus,” Ian grumbles, looking up at the sky. “It’s like when you turn a stray cat into a spoiled fucking house pet.”

“I _know_ you ain’t comparin’ me to a fuckin’ cat right now—”

Ian ignores him, and adds, “Yes, _your majesty,_ I’ll return you to your bed as soon as possible. We used to fuck in alleys and parks and under the high school bleachers, but _please—_ only the finest of mattresses, for my domesticated husband.”

“Watch it,” Mickey says. “You wanted me this way, bitch.”

Ian turns to kiss Mickey’s cheek. He mumbles, “Always,” against his skin, and adds, “Want you every way.”

Mickey tries desperately to fight his smile, but he fails. Miserably. His face heats up, and Ian laughs—although, it sounds an awful lot like a giggle—as he smiles against Mickey’s cheek.

It washes over Mickey, until his eyes feel heavy, until he moves to rest his head on Ian’s chest, and dozes off to the rise and fall of Ian’s rhythmic breathing.

* * *

It’s not like they brought a fucking tent or a sleeping bag or anything—they were never planning on spending the night _sleeping_ outside.

Although, truly, Mickey could argue that it would have been completely possible, if not for the noisy blare of a fire truck zipping down a nearby street.

Ian is awake, smiling as Mickey meets his eyes.

“Sleepy?” he asks, brushing a hand back through Mickey’s short hair.

“Guess so,” Mickey says, rolling onto his back and looking up at the sky.

He has to admit—this is the best night they’ve had in a while. Memorable and meaningful; worth adding to an ever-growing collection of memories making up their history, suspending them in a moment in time, and leading into their future.

It feels like they’re together in their own personal universe, basking in starlight, in the glow of the moon. In the glow of each other.

“You ever wish on stars, Mick?” Ian asks, almost absently.

Immediately, Mickey wants to clap back with a comment about how he’s not a fucking teenage girl, and _no,_ he doesn’t wish on stars.

Except, that’s a lie. He has, before.

And here he is, lying on a blanket beneath the summer sky, staring up at the stars with Ian beside him. Thinking about how, sometimes, it feels as if the stars aligned just for them.

He settles on responding with, “Maybe.”

Ian grabs for his hand, and threads their fingers together. Mickey turns his head to look at Ian, and Ian does the same, with a gentle smile on his face.

“Don’t laugh at me for this—” Ian begins, pauses, and adds, “—but I used to look for stars, and wish that we’d end up together, when we were young.”

Mickey’s chest feels tight.

“It just became one of those things. Every time I saw a star, like one of those really bright ones. I’d think of you, and I’d wish for you,” Ian continues. “Even when it felt impossible.”

In any other moment, Mickey would want to tease the shit out of him for this. But right now, there’s a lump in his throat, as he looks into Ian’s eyes.

“You think your wishes worked?” Mickey asks, softly.

Ian holds up their hands where they’re linked together, his left with Mickey’s right, and smiles when his ring catches the moonlight. He hums and says, “I think so.”

Mickey thinks so, too.

“I saw a star one night, and it had been forever since I’d last seen you,” Ian begins. Mickey looks at him, curiously; waits for him to continue. “It was a cloudy night. Couldn’t see any others—just the one. And I just—felt messed up, you know? I missed you. I was scared, and I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. But I saw it, and I thought of you.”

Ian pauses, although Mickey is fairly certain that his story isn’t over. He squeezes Mickey’s hand, and Mickey squeezes back.

“I stared at it for a while, trying to figure out what to wish for. Either—to wish I could see you again, even just one last time. Or, to wish that you ended up somewhere that made you happy. I didn’t even know if you were _alive,”_ Ian’s voice breaks. “I just fucking wanted you to happy.”

Mickey swallows. He has a hard time thinking about his time without Ian; the time he spent in prison before escaping, and the time he spent in Mexico afterwards, hiding and running for his life.

For all Mickey knows, maybe he wished for Ian on that very same star.

“Which wish did you make?” Mickey asks, his voice quiet.

He rubs his thumb across Ian’s fingers.

“The second one,” Ian says, on an exhale. “That you’d end up somewhere that made you happy. Then, the next week, I went to prison. And—you were there. Waiting for me.”

Mickey stares at him, and it clicks, what Ian is trying to tell him. Ian wished for Mickey’s happiness, ultimately, instead of his own.

But Mickey’s happiness was always meant to connect with Ian’s—tethered together by love and stars.

Maybe it always had been, from the beginning.

“My happy ending was always gonna be with you,” Mickey says. “Always.”

He’s never meant anything more.

Ian shifts closer until he’s resting his head on Mickey’s chest, draping an arm and a leg over him. It’s something between a hug and an awkward attempt at spooning, but it makes Mickey smile. He strokes his fingers through Ian’s hair, and tilts his body towards Ian until he’s hugging him back, with their legs tangled together.

Safe. Comfortable. Right where they belong.

They’re quiet for a long time, until Mickey asks, “Have you ever felt more fuckin’ gay than you do right now, in this moment?”

Ian starts laughing almost instantly, and he picks up his head to look into Mickey’s eyes.

“Sometimes,” Ian says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Bullshit,” Mickey argues. “More gay than this? Talking about stars and love and fuckin’ wishes and shit?”

 _“Sometimes,”_ Ian repeats. He grabs onto Mickey’s shoulders and rolls them over again, until Mickey lands on top of Ian’s chest with an _uhnf._ “I don’t know—I feel pretty gay when we fuck. Also felt pretty gay when I married you.”

Mickey waves his hand at Ian, dismissively.

“Technicalities,” he says.

Ian replies, “Well, _technically_ , I love you. And, _technically,_ that’s because I’m gay.”

Mickey snorts.

“Shouldn’t keep secrets from your husband,” Mickey says. “I should know that kinda shit, y’know?”

“Forgive me,” Ian shrugs. “I thought it was heavily implied.”

“You’re forgiven,” Mickey says.

“What a relief,” Ian replies, waits a beat, then adds, “Wait—I bet I can make this moment more gay.”

Mickey pulls away from Ian’s embrace and sits up, grabbing his shirt and shoving it into his chest as Ian sits up beside him.

“Enlighten me,” Mickey says, as Ian pulls his shirt down over his head.

Ian jumps up from the ground, brushing grass and dirt from his sweatpants.

Mickey shoves their blanket into his bag and smiles as Ian reaches out to take his hand, pulling him up until they're standing face to face.

“I could start saying shit like—Mickey, you’re my shooting star. My supernova—”

“Okay, I get it,” Mickey says, cutting him off.

He throws the bag over his shoulder and turns to head home, promptly walking away from Ian and his ongoing declarations of love.

“And—Mickey, my love for you burns brighter than all the stars in the sky—” Ian rambles on, jogging behind Mickey to catch up to him.

“Sure it does,” Mickey says, moving a little faster to try to stay a few steps ahead.

“You're the brightest star in my sky—together, we shine brighter than the moon and stars—”

Mickey starts fucking laughing _,_ scrunching up his nose as he stops and turns back to Ian, just in time to see him burst into his own fit of laughter.

“You done?" Mickey asks, although he makes no effort to stop it when Ian leans in to kiss him.

“Love you, too,” Ian whispers, smiling against his lips.

And, all jokes aside—all teasing, taunting, and embarrassing terms of endearment aside—Mickey can’t help but recognize the truth behind Ian’s foolish words.

He’s not about to deny it.

The stars seem to shine a little brighter, and burn a little hotter, with Ian and Mickey together.

Just like they were always meant to be.

Just like they were written in the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


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